Holding Peace
by Evil-Ekat
Summary: Phoenix feeling "inspired" had simply always been a prettied-up description for, "being in a mood to cause trouble." It meant embarrassing transportation, and a high chance of misadventure. One might think this left him unprepared for a day filled with cryptic poetry, gluttonous ducks, and many interruptions. Yet it was what Phoenix left unsaid which caught him the most off-guard.


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He woke up with a twist in his back and angry scarlet lines impressed upon his skin. Caused by the pages of a book he had fallen asleep with. His lamp was still on, overheating no doubt. Turning it off was the first thing he did after sliding out of bed. Miles nearly singed his fingers, reaching for the bulb instead of the switch. Then, he stumbled out of his room, feet scuffing loudly against the floor. He was woozy with fatigue, but managed to make his way down the stairs and to the kitchen.

When Miles got to the table, he sat down, and stared at the space in front of him, trying to blink away the tired feeling. More stretching and a yawn helped somewhat. The muscles in his back were strained, from holding an awkward position in the night. Eventually, he became aware enough of his surroundings to glance at the clock. It was almost twelve in the afternoon. Having heard him wake up, his father entered the room. He was mostly quiet, going about his own business before greeting him.

"Morning."

"Afternoon."

He went inside the fridge for something, and returned with the orange juice. A cup was set down in front of him, and his glasses were neatly placed next to it. Miles wrinkled his nose at both items. He hated citrus, the way it soured everything, and twisted the taste buds on his tongue. He needed the vitamin C, so he downed the drink.

"Phoenix stopped by earlier."

He choked on his juice.

 _"What?!_ Why didn't you-?!"

Miles stopped when he remembered that he _had_ tried to get him out of bed earlier. It was entirely his fault he had missed Phoenix. He took a composing breath, and gave his father a twitching smile.

Drawing out the torture, he continued, "said he was feeling inspired."

"Was he?"

"He'll be coming back around twelve if you wanted to-"

"Twelve?!" Miles leaped from his seat, chair screeching noisily. "That's in _five_ minutes!"

A series of races then began. First, it was to get dressed. Miles couldn't find any clean shirts and ended up having to do the smell test more times than he was comfortable with. But he pulled together something passable. Next, he had to clean his teeth and deal with his bedhead. This was done simultaneously, and he nearly got toothpaste in his bangs when he mixed up which brush he needed to use.

Phoenix being "inspired" had a definition of its own. That meant they would be going out somewhere that day. It was his turn to be in charge of food, but he had no time to make anything. Instead, he raided the pantry, taking boxes of crackers, different cheeses, and every bit of junk food he came across. He pulled water bottles from the fridge. Out of spite, he took some of his father's grape juice as well.

A bell chimed, and he called, "your beau is here!"

"Father!"

It was hard to decide whether Phoenix being called his _beau_ , or the two-seated bike was more embarrassing. Miles quickly realized the answer was none of the above, when he got a face full of spiky hair instead of a kiss. Phoenix wasn't paying attention, and had turned his head without realizing what he was doing.

"Be safe, and have fun!"

"We will!" Phoenix cheerily said.

His palms were too deeply buried in his eyes for him to say anything at this point. Once he was certain they were no longer on his street, he dared uncover them, and actually hold the handles of the bike. Phoenix had an easel strapped to his back, his bucket of art supplies was sitting in the basket.

"D-do you m-mind, pedaling as well?"

"Oh, of course." He joined in, and their pace picked up. "People Park?"

"Temsik," he said, still short on breath.

When Phoenix got inspired, it was often to a ridiculous extent. If that meant an extra twenty minutes of biking, then so be it. Phoenix still did most of the pedaling, intent on getting to their location. He probably shouldn't have been in charge of steering in his focused state. They only ran into a tree once, so it wasn't too much of a hindrance.

They came to the end of the road, and switched to walking, pushing the bike to the top of the hill. It was discarded in the grass, along with his easel, and the bag of snacks. They pulled out a blanket, and stretched across the ground. Curious as to where Phoenix would set up painting, Miles looked around.

Most of the area steeply inclined. The foliage all seemed to slant forwards, their roots desperately clinging to the dirt. A little ways down the hill, there was a small plateau. Trees and their broad leaves obscured most of the area. They blocked out the sunshine, creating dappled patterns of light. And in those sunny places, pale wildflowers bloomed, tangling with the long grass. Past the trees, there was an open view of the stone fountain, where children were launching boats. A man sat on the edge of the basin, feeding mallard ducks. Their greedy quacks were soft from a distance, but still audible.

"Isn't it beautiful?"

"It's quite nice."

"It's like something out of a Monet," he sighed, voice becoming dreamy. "Just look at the way jade from the leaves reflects in the fountain! And those slate-grey pebbles work so nicely in contrast with the people down there, it helps make them more prominent against the action happening in the water! And the positioning of the trees really makes you feel distant from the events, like you're detached from what's taking place!"

Phoenix continued to ramble about colour value and artistic theories as he went through his paints. Miles settled on the blanket in the meantime, taking out his book, and occasionally nodding along with what he was being told. It was difficult to follow, Phoenix at least seemed happy with the landscape.

"It's just-" he paused, to sigh yet again. "-wonderful."

"Indeed."

"But not as wonderful as you."

At this rate, his face would never stop being rosy. Seeing this, Phoenix jokingly tossed him the bottle of sunscreen.

"You're going a little red. Don't forget your ears."

Still burning up, he made sure to put some on.

Phoenix went to the flat ledge, to set up his canvas. To occupy himself, he had brought along a book. The case was interesting. A woman had been pushed over the ledge of a cliff by her lover, but the detectives on the case had difficulty proving it. Accidents had happened in the area all the time, and they needed to show from pictures taken of the scene that there was no other way for her fall to have been a mishap. He had stayed up until three in the morning, reading the intricacies of how the case was built. Yet now, his attention was wandering elsewhere.

All that biking in the afternoon sun had made Phoenix hot. He had discarded his shirt, and was getting to work. With broad strokes, he began to fill in the basics of the scene. The sharp, blue sky, the rolling grass... That was all he could take in before his eyes settled on something else entirely. The shorts he was wearing made his-

Miles shook his head, trying to rid himself of the ridiculous notion. His fingers curled around the pages of the book, and he forced himself to look down at the words. His eyes passed over them, yet it may as well have been written in a foreign language. He reread the same paragraph over and over, the words not meaningful. He would be able to recite them by heart, if he did not try to immerse himself in the contents. While it had been easy to lose track of the time last night, it was difficult now. A book which had captured his interest so completely was nothing in comparison to his-

 _"Vulgarthoughtsvulgarthoughtsvulgarthoughts,"_ he internally chanted, trying not to dwell upon them.

The grass around him was quickly torn, as he began to occupy himself. He plucked the blades out, roots and all. Then he would shred them into emerald confetti with his fingernails, not minding the stains, or the dirt which smudged his fingers. It was a better distraction to fiddle with his surroundings. Scraggly daisies had their stems braided together. Buttery yellow dandelions were tossed down the hill. He nearly pricked his finger on their thorns. The sharp warning led him to snapping off a leaf from the low-hanging branches of a tree. He punched crescent-shaped holes in it with his thumbs. Acorns nested deep in the grass were inspected, and kept if they hadn't lost their hats. The poor ones were tossed, always falling short of his target. Most of them were old, weathered, and they had large cracks running down their casings. And between all of these activities, he sneaked glances at Phoenix.

It wasn't staring if he looked away regularly.

One time when he peeked, Phoenix was looking at him. Miles tried to turn it into a casual action, pretending to inspect the entire park, not just him. Ducks trailed through the fountain, upsetting paper boats and bobbing for food. Children curiously watched the swirling fins of the two massive koi fish that lived in the basin. When he dared to check again, Phoenix turned. This time, he diverted his attention to the book, only to discover that it was upside down. When had that happened?! God, Phoenix was now walking towards him, and he couldn't turn around the novel without seeming obvious.

"You ready for lunch?"

Miles snapped the book shut, tucking it under his arm.

"Lunch sounds good. I was on a bit of short notice, so I just brought along everything which I could fit in the bag."

"Oh I'm sure we'll survive," he appreciatively said. "Somehow."

They unpacked the food together. It was a god-awful lunch, befitting the average diet of students. Snack foods encrusted in salt, with sugary drinks to chase it all down. His taste hardly protested, but his guilty conscience was almost as filling. Sometimes Miles swore his father was trying to kill him with the groceries that he purchased.

As they ate, he felt less worried about the upside-down book, and his barely restrained staring. While he'd slept in long enough, the day was relaxing. The patterned shade of the trees was just right, and the smell of the clovers not too strong. Jewel-bright water sparkled in the distance, mist occasionally brushed against his skin with the gentle push of the breeze. They joked and talked as they ate. Phoenix made a comment about him throwing acorns. Before he knew it, he had somehow been convinced to toss little crackers for Phoenix to catch in his mouth. All of them missed, littering the grass. The closest landed right on the bridge of his nose. Phoenix scrunched his eyes together, and tilted his head forwards, attempting to grab it. The face he made was ridiculous, and they both laughed.

Miles flipped the next round cracker like he would a coin, thinking. Out of all two of his previous stabs at relationships, Phoenix seemed to have the most unearthly timing. He was there for the best of life, as well as the worst, and the moments that didn't matter. All throughout their decade of knowing each other, he had shown. Larry only came during the worst. Correction, Larry _was_ the worst of times! Motivated by this thought, he pelted a cracker at Phoenix. It fell right into his mouth, just as a familiar voice cried out, "NICK! EDGEY!"

"No! It can't be-!"

Phoenix gagged, and had to spit out the cracker.

"Larry!"

Sure enough, their friend plopped down on the blanket. He looked at Phoenix. Phoenix looked at him. It was a silent conversation, swift and ruthless. They needed to distract Larry unless he really got going. Whenever he was upset over a girl, he latched on and wouldn't leave them alone. Phoenix jerked his head, indicating there was no one in vicinity they could sic him on. Getting an idea of a way to rid themselves of Larry, he made a small gesture to the numerous crackers in the blanket. Phoenix nodded in understanding. Miles put on his best expression of annoyance, not that it was difficult to fake with Larry crashing on them.

"Wright, the sheer amount of food you spilled is disgusting," he sneered, standing up. "Although I suppose such sloppiness fits well with your clothes."

Too harsh? Phoenix rolled his shoulders a bit, letting the insult slide. A bit too much then.

"Here, let me-"

Phoenix followed, taking a corner of the blanket.

"-help!"

It was like one of the classic tricks of a magician. They jerked the blanket. Instead of the fine china remaining soundly in its place, they sent Larry flying straight down the hill. They watched, as he bowled straight into the easel, knocking it down, and winced. Despite the collision, Larry was still going. He did not stop until he had crashed into an angry old woman at the bottom.

"Well-" they settled back, and dusted off their hands. "That solves that."

"Your painting."

"Leave it," he waved a dismissive hand, and yawned. "I'm not sure about you, but I'm ready for a lay down."

Miles wasn't, due to his sleep-in, he nevertheless spread out on the blanket. Tentatively, an arm crept around his shoulders. Dark, fluttering eyelashes were asking him if this was fine. Fighting back a snort, he leaned closer in response. The excitement of Larry interrupting them wore off, and his breathing evened out. Slowly, Phoenix closed his eyes.

"Aren't you bothered about the painting?"

"Nope. I wasn't really getting anywhere."

"You weren't?"

Slowly, his lips turned up in a smile. He was always smug about something when his teeth weren't showing. His lips were pressed together, barely restrained from revealing the argument to one-up his own. It was an infuriating expression, one which always made him bristle with indignation. Even when not directed at him, he could not help but be on the defensive, ready to counter whatever flawed logic he would present. As if Phoenix could sense the flicker of hostility, he pulled him a little closer.

"You probably noticed, from how often you checked my progress."

"I was more focused on reading," he lied.

"Good book?"

"I think you'd enjoy it."

"Oh, that reminds me," he said.

His grin was more content than amused now.

"Of what?"

"A poem that I've been memorizing for lit class. Here, tell me if I make any mistakes."

There was a rustling of paper. Phoenix reached into his pocket, and pulled out a crumpled sheet. He took the page, smoothing out the wrinkles so he could follow along.

"Si vous n'avez rien à me dire," he began. "Pour venir auprès de moi? Pourquoi me faire ce sourire, qui tournerait la tête au roi?"

"My French is a little rusty," he admitted, trying to make sense of the stanzas on the page.

"Just listen to the rest."

So he did. The speaker of the poem was posing questions to someone. He was asking about smiles, and actions of the hand. Even with his eyes closed, Phoenix waved his arm around, grasped at his wrist with his free hand. There was something enigmatic about the way the addressee acted, which the poet could not understand. His voice was airy and light as if he were singing a children's rhyme. Almost teasing in a way. He detailed an intricate puzzle, built off glances and squeezing hands. Bits and pieces made sense to him, but he was unable to fill in the blanks. It was the conviction in Phoenix's voice which finally told him it was not a riddle, but a rhetorical question. The speaker already knew the answer, the object of his attention did not.

"You know it perfectly."

"It's a Hugo. His novels are a bit long-winded, but his poetry has always been quite good."

"Do you know any more?

"A few. What did you think?"

"That I should brush up on my French again."

"It _is_ the language of love. Or wait, is that Italian? Anyway, what did you think?" Phoenix repeated.

"Well, I can certainly relate."

"Y-you can?"

"Because I have no idea what the speaker is going on about."

"Oh, ah, yes."

Was it just him, or did Phoenix sound disappointed?

"Could you write me a translation please?"

"'Course. I'll-" Phoenix gave an odd, choking laugh. "I think that's the first time you've ever asked me to do that."

"Well I want to comprehend the poem," he retorted, not seeing why this was a laughing matter.

"It's different, is all. You're different."

Suddenly, Miles felt like he was the one with all of the questions. After all, what was a vague statement like that supposed to mean? He hated it when Phoenix got cryptic on him! It always seemed to come out of nowhere, it was inexplicable and annoying. He even appeared to enjoy making others confused with his nonsensical statements. And this would all happen while he wore that irritating, cocky smile. The "I-Know-Something-That-You-Don't."

How had he been acting different? In what way had his behavior changed?!

As much as he wanted to bombard him with questions, it didn't happen. In the time he had been stewing in his thoughts, Phoenix had dozed off. That action was almost more inflaming than any of the muddled answers he knew Phoenix would have given.

With a quiet sigh, he cast his attention upwards. The sky was a cold blue, and the woolen blanket a bit scratchy, yet they were acceptable. The arm which had oh-so-casually draped itself upon him outweighed the negative. Days of inspiration were always interesting in the end. Some wound up in misadventure, but they always managed to squeeze in some fun along the way. And, being miserable was alright, Miles reasoned, so long as Phoenix was there too.

Was it wrong, that recently, he wanted days like the ones he spent with Phoenix as much as he wanted to be an attorney? Most of the time, he envisioned a future in the courtrooms and crime scenes. Battles with the competition, haggling with detectives for evidence, and picking apart expert opinions. The plan was as well-put together and as organized as his future office would be. Then, _he_ came along, with his spontaneity and art supplies, completely uncertain of what he planned to do in the future. Once or twice or every other conversation about their ideal careers, he brought up all the uses for art in the justice system. (Courtroom artists, crime scene recreation, composite sketches, and more.) From that, Miles realized there might be a _slight_ ulterior motive with his suggestions.

Mostly because he had trouble dreaming up a future without...

Because dreaming about his future...

 _Dreaming..._

When he woke up, all but the area around his shoulders was enveloped in a frigid chill. He shuddered, wondering where the serenity of the day had gone. It was almost dark, and Phoenix was stirring as well. That could have been what had waked him up, over the drop in temperature. Upon getting up, the first thing he said was, "I think you put my arm to sleep."

Their day at the park was over. Long shadows grew from the trees. The people who had flitted about before had all gone home, Larry had been chased off. During the time they had slept, the ducks were curious enough to investigate. All the crackers had been eaten, and cottony-white down was stuck in Phoenix's head. He gently brushed off his hair.

"You've made friends with the wildlife too."

The horrified expression went quite well with his new feathers.

With the cleanup help from their new mallard friends- _"Surely feeding them broke a by-law,"_ fretted a distant voice- there was little they had to do. The half-finished painting- now filled with lines not unlike the ones he woke up with- was packed away. The blanket was shaken off and folded into a neat roll.

A risky descent was taken down the bill on Phoenix's bike. Miles held onto his shoulders more than the handles, as feathers obscured his vision and the whirling of the tires got dangerously loud. Their trip had been steep all the way to Temsik Park. Now, they easily built up momentum. They coasted along with the growing shadows, trying to beat them out before it got too dark. The wind was like a knife against his flustered face, and the crickets began to chirp. Phoenix walked him up to the front door. Pale, brown moths danced around the lamp on the porch. He looked very subdued in the dim light. Nervously twitching fingers fiddled in his pockets. It was his job to cut to the chase.

"No tongue. Father probably heard us come up the stairs."

"R-right!"

He would have scolded him to be quieter when his father could be embarrassing at any moment, but there were easier ways to solve that problem. At least until "no tongue" translated into something else.

"Did you just-?!"

"I was trying to slip the translation into your back pocket!" Phoenix defended.

Miles felt, and sure enough, there was a lump of paper where he said it would be.

"I thought I should multi-task," he elaborated, wriggling his fingers.

"Multi-task?"

He didn't know whether to be happy or incredulous. On the one hand, he had the translation. On the other, who focused on multiple things when they were in the middle of a kiss? _But,_ at the same time, Phoenix had somehow managed to write the translation without him noticing, and probably would have succeeded in sneaking it into his pocket.

"So you wouldn't notice until you got undressed. And then it would be all romantic and-"

"No multi-tasking," he commanded.

"U-um, right. Sorry. Let's just-"

Just then, the front door opened.

"Is everything alright? I thought I heard yelling-"

"He's like Larry," Phoenix whispered to himself, horrified at his own revelation. "He just _shows up_."

Normally, Miles would have been offended by someone comparing his father to Larry Butz. He might have his nitpicks of the man, but no one else was allowed to insult him. But normally, his father wasn't gaping at them in surprise while Phoenix's hand was still firmly in his back pocket.

"Goodnight."

His father backed into the hall, but they both suspected a series of interruptions were lined up for them that night. A settlement was made. Brusque and to the point.

"Night. I l-" Phoenix made the same, strange sound with his throat that he had earlier. "I'll call you when I get home."

"I wouldn't expect anything less."

Then he turned. Walking down the squeaky porch steps which had alerted his father, and hopping onto his bike. He rang the little bell, and rode off.

Miles ignored the amused glint in his father's eyes and the unspoken question which sat upon his lips. Instead, with his back pressed to the front door, he unfolded an origami heart.

"If you have nothing to tell me, why do you come so close to me? Why do you make this smile, that could turn a monarch's head?"

He muttered the first stanza, attempting to make sense of what Phoenix had said earlier. As he delved deeper into the poem, he found it challenging to read the words aloud. In fact, Miles was quite certain he was not able to say anything in that moment. He went speechless, leaned against the door for support. Slowly, he closed his eyes, and attempted to take control his breathing once more. When he did, all he could see was a figure darting in and out of the amber streetlights, disappearing entirely.

The meaning behind the poem was so _simple._

Then again, he was rather adept at overlooking the simple things.

 _"I'm in love with you."_

Twice Phoenix had tried to say something to that effect.

Twice he had been oblivious.

Miles groaned, covering his eyes in mortification. Why had he sent Phoenix on his merry way before he could say anything? How could he have been so stupid when all the logical signs were there to begin with?!

Self-pity could not last for long, it did not have to.

Above the singing of the crickets and the thumping of his heart, the phone rang.

 _ **Fin**_

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 **AN: I'm normally not at the bottom, but here I am today!**

 **A while back for a writer's craft course, I had to analyse the works of an author, and so I looked at some of Victor Hugo's poetry. I personally think it is better than his novel-writing, to the point that even his love poems make me smile a bit. The one in this fic is known as both** _ **Have you nothing to say for yourself**_ **and** _ **If you have nothing to tell me.**_ **(Si vous n'avez rien à me dire).**

 **It's fairly simple, the speaker of the poem sharing mutual feelings with a woman, and asking her why she acts the way she does. But you don't need to understand that to enjoy the fic. I just felt that of course Feenie the arts student would recite romantic-period, 19th century poems in their original French.**


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